


Caged

by Asher_2179



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Addiction, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Extended Scene, PTSD, Tony’s frantic inner monologue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-08-07
Packaged: 2019-06-23 08:44:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15602646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asher_2179/pseuds/Asher_2179
Summary: Conversation in the flying doughnut featuring the manic nattering of Tony’s hyperactive mind.





	Caged

**Author's Note:**

> Demons. We all gottem. Tony has many, the poor sweet thing. 
> 
> Reviews are most appreciated.

Tony wipes a hand over his mouth as he paces the cavernous ship.  
He is craving a drink.  
It starts as a quiet little grumble, from somewhere in the back of his brain.  
“ _You’d do better with one in hand_ ,” it says.  
It’s always there, this little creature. Offering unsolicited advice.  
But it’s been quiet of late, muffled.  
Sure after Germany it sounded up, with it’s travelling business partner, the creature who suggests something a bit harder than alcohol.  
They were screaming at him after that ... he very nearly gave in.  
But he didn’t.  
It’s been years since he’d given in.  
Probably because in Afghanistan the taste of scotch was the last thing he remembered after the attack, and the first thing he vomited up after the water torture.  
So when he eventually blasted his ass outta there, one dead mentor down and a live one at home, waiting to kill him, he just wasn’t in the mood.  
Of course, he slipped up, at his birthday the following year, but could you blame him?  
It wasn’t a patch on his pre-Afghanistan days, it just booze that time, he left the pharmaceuticals out of it ... Not because wanted to, mind you, only because he was just scared they would be too much for his shrapnel ravaged heart.  
But he got back on the straight and narrow after that untimely little indiscretion. The creatures had been successfully locked in a cage and he hadn’t touched a thing since then.

That’s not to say he hasn’t thought about it, though. The booze.  
Yes, Tony Stark has definitely thought about taking a nice big bottle of top shelf, fine aged scotch and getting gloriously, stupidly, embarrassingly drunk.  
He can imagine it; smokey in the back of his throat, warming his chest and head. Pleasantly blurring the edges of life, blotting out those infernal problems, _god_ there are so _many_ of them these days ...

NO, the important thing, is that he hasn’t.  
He is tee-total. White-knuckle, twelve steps be damned, cold turkey.  
Old habits die hard though, that’s the saying isn’t it ...  
_Shit_.

Everything is happening too fast. It’s too much. It’s all threatening to overwhelm him and if that happens ... then him, and the kid, and Doctor Asshat and everyone on planet Earth however many _fucking_ thousands of miles away _that_ is now ... they’re all fucked.  
So he is trying like you would not _believe_ , to keep it together. For all of them.  
But it’s getting increasingly hard to.

“- For what, nearly blasting me into space?”

  
Strange’s annoyingly clipped voice cuts through his panicked internal monologue.  
Tony feels his blood simmer.

  
“Uh, who just saved your magical ass? Me.” He points at his chest. He means, the kid, also, but that’s besides the point.

  
“I seriously don’t know how you fit your head into that helmet.”

  
He wheels to watch Strange, sanctimonious asshole that he is, fixing that ridiculous cloak back across his shoulders.

  
“Admit it. You should have ducked out when I told you to. I tried to bench you, you refused.”

  
“Unlike everyone else in your life, I don’t work for you.”

  
His lip curls in a snarl.  
_Can everyone just get a new line, already?_

  
“And due to that fact, we’re now in a flying _doughnut_ , _billions_ of miles from Earth. With no back-up.”

  
“I’m back up!” Peter’s ears prick up.

  
“No, you’re a stowaway. The _adults_ are talking,” He says, motioning between Strange and himself.

  
The kid’s shoulders actually sag.  
Strange stammers, screwing his face up.

  
“I’m sorry, I’m confused as to the relationship here. I mean, what is he, your ward?”

  
Tony ignores him.  
Why are they ... ? _They’re wasting time!_  
Strange and Pete exchange niceties, the kid being overly gracious in that apple-pie way he has that mother-in-laws everywhere would love.

Tony shakes his head, trying to clear the fog of anger and rising hysteria, turning to the control panel behind him.  
The alien tech offers nothing but silent, glowing light as an answer to his questioning glares.  
_Jesus_.  
The coil in his stomach pulls tighter.  
Whatever hope he had of being able to figure out the workings of the navigation system have been blown out the hatch as fast as frozen Voldemort went.  
He hasn’t felt as hopelessly desperate since ...  
No. _No no nononono_ , not now, _not_ now.  
He’s not gonna get lost in that - quite literal - wormhole of self doubt and panic here.

  
“ _Wouldn’t a drink would be good. Just a tip?_ ” The creature asks, face pressed against the bars of its cage.  
He agrees. Just one to straighten him out. Wouldn’t meant anything.  
He rubs his mouth, rubbing the phantom taste of liquor away.

In his peripheral vision he sees a shimmer of activity, some symbols on the screen scatter and change, and he feels a tug of a course correction. Just a slight shift, barely enough to make them shuffle their feet unconsciously, to keep their balance.  
He waves a hand, motioning for their attention.

  
“The ship is self-correcting it’s course. The things on autopilot.”

  
Strange turns, eyebrow raised.

  
“Can you control it? Fly us home?”

He stares at the tech.

 _No_.

He can only stand here, absolutely helpless, as it Uber’s them safely to Thanos’ doorstep.

  
“Stark?” Strange’s voice cuts through his yammering panic.

  
“Yeah.”

  
“Can you get us home?” The doctor repeats his words, slower this time. He advances on him slowly too, like he’s approaching an unruly animal.

  
“Yeah, heard you,” He paces, manic energy pulsing through him with the beat of his elevated heart-rate, “I’m ... not sure we should.”

  
“Under no circumstances can we bring the stone to Thanos,” Strange launches into chastising mode, “I don’t think you _quite_ understand what’s at stake here-”

  
“-What? _What?_  NO!” Tony cuts over the top of him.

  
He has no idea who this, this _wizard_ is, but he sure as _shit_ hasn’t seen half of what Tony fucking Stark has seen.  
Cold, dead worlds. Everyone he knows and cares about... gone.  
Half the world, gone.  
It’s coming.  
He _knows_ it is.

  
“It’s _you_ who doesn’t understand that! Thanos has been inside my head, for _six_ years,” he growls, the intensity in his voice ramping up, “Since he sent an army to New York, and now he’s back -”

And? He’s run out of puff.  
And what?  
_What is he going to do?_

“- And I don’t know what to do ...” he says.

  
It’s an admission of weakness, perhaps, but now is no time for dick-measuring competitions.

  
“... So I’m not sure if it’s a better plan to fight him on our turf, or his. But you saw what they did, what they can do ... At least on his turf he’s not expecting it. So I say, we take the fight to him, _Doctor_. Do you concur?”

_Come on._

The space between their chests crackles with the static of their anger. Their distrust and uncertainty. They stand on the precipice, baited, like an elastic band pulled too tight. Strange is appraising him with cool, intelligent eyes. His face is unreadable, whatever emotion he feels (if he feels any at all, which is still debatable) hidden behind an impenetrable mask.  
A perfect poker face if he’s ever seen one.  
Tony, on the other hand?  
No, he’s never been able to hide what he feels. He’s got his heart on his sleeve 24-7.  
Right now, that means pure, unadulterated panic.  
If he were to look in a mirror, he’d see it etched across his face clear as day; pulling at his mouth, tugging it into a grim line; between his brows where they pull tight together in worry. He feels it, swelling through him, pulsing through his veins like a shot of adrenaline.

 _Or really strong coke_ , his brain adds, apropos of nothing. He never much cared for coke, what with his hyperactive tendency at the bes of times, it tended to leave him strung out and restless.  
He cups a hand over his mouth, briefly, before pulling it away.

“Alright Stark, we go to him.”

  
Tony’s shoulder sag in relief.

  
“But you have to understand ... if it comes to saving you, or the kid,” he looks over Tony’s shoulder at Pete, “or the Time Stone ... I will not _hesitate_ to let either of you die.” His voice is whip sharp, the rich timbre of it rattles through Tony’s chest.

  
“I can’t. Because the universe depends on it.”

 _Right_.

“Nice. Good moral compass,” He pats the man on the shoulder, a strong hand, clasping down on the velvety fabric of his cloak, just a touch firmer than he needs to.  
“We’re straight.”

He turns his back on Strange and Peter is right there, biting his lip, all anxious, wide-eyed concern. He can’t bare to look his face.  
What is he supposed to do?  
He’s standing on an alien spaceship on a collision course with the root of all of his darkest fears, and the only other person on here has just readily admitted he is willing to let them all _die_ for the sake of some questionably magic stone.  
It’s all so .. unfair. The kid is too damn _good_. He’s young and smart and things are going (were going) so well for him.  
His hand is already raised, on its way to his mouth, and he has to stop it, hovering in mid-air, Peter looking at him, eyebrows raised, waiting for some kind of confirmation.

 _Be better._  
Better than his fears, better than his hang-ups.

“All right kid.”

He brings his hand down, to rest on his shoulder, then the other, in quick succession.

  
“You’re an Avenger now.”

**Author's Note:**

> The mouth wiping is a loving ode to the eternal caretaker of the Overlook Hotel, Jack Torrance. Book-Jack of course, not that Kubrick’s isn’t great, too. Alcoholism hey?


End file.
